


guardian angel (if such a thing exists)

by TalentedLoser



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 10:01:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3130472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TalentedLoser/pseuds/TalentedLoser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The five times Marcus Bell decides to protect Sherlock Holmes, and the one time--well, the one time he doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	guardian angel (if such a thing exists)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a sucker for angst, what can I say? I also suck at fluff, so there you go.  
> Any questions or prompts can be sent to my tumblr, themadkingreigns.
> 
> Enjoy.

1\. Sometimes, Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes was thick-headed.

Especially when interrogating a possible murder suspect who had tendencies to lash out in violence because of a deep-seeded hatred toward cops and higher authority. It did not help when said Consulting Detective barked up the wrong tree and decided to use his brilliant deductions to talk about the suspect’s parents and the troubles he had while growing up because he had a small twitch in his hand. No, not at all.

Marcus was glad he enjoyed his job enough to take down a suspect before striking the brilliant Consulting Detective in the jaw.

“Next time,” Marcus rose from the ground, making sure the suspect was subdued enough under the other policemen who happened to rush in and help (instead of a certain someone who had been a part of the interrogation sitting across from him). Holmes looked up at the young detective. “Stick with figuring out if the suspect had anything to do with the crime.”

Sherlock huffed. “He couldn’t have done such a thing as murder, at least not the victim we have. I only wanted to entertain myself with a hypothesis to cause a rouse.”

Of course.

Sometimes? Marcus questioned whether it was all the time.

(Joan would scold Sherlock for causing such a thing in the interrogation room later on. “Detective Bell did not seem to mind.”

Joan sighed. “You are really dense sometimes.”)

\- - -

2\. Helping Sherlock Holmes dodge weapons twice in one day? Very coincidental.

The first time wasn’t even in Marcus’ presence. He had heard it from Joan.

“He thought he could take on three guys who had done some petty crime because of the uncharacteristically Rolex watch on one of their wrists. How he saw the watch, I don’t know, but he spotted it. So when he went up to the three, he accused them of theft, and, of course, the men became very defensive. He dodged one of them and fought another, but there was a guy who had a beer bottle in his hand. I couldn’t just stand there and see him get hit by it. I yelled ‘Duck!’ and he ducked—luckily the bottle hit the larger dude of the three, and, sure enough, he took them all down. He even retrieved the Rolex.”

(Marcus was wondering why there was a Rolex suddenly on his desk, with a ‘Return to Owner’ note attached.)

The second time was with both Joan and Sherlock. They were asking a bartender about a victim’s whereabouts the night before, wondering who he was with and if the bartender knew if he was going anywhere. The bartender didn’t know where he was going, but gave the detectives a clue on who was with the man killed the night before. Sherlock had turned from the bar to look around, seeing if he could spot anything about the patrons in the bar, but as he did, he heard a very familiar voice.

“Hey! That’s the guy from earlier!”

Sherlock just stared at the three men rise from their table—one of which grabbed a pool cue near their seats—while his partners turned to the words said. Joan groaned.

“Sherlock, seriously?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I had not antagonized them this time. (‘This time,’ Marcus noted.) They merely recognize me.”

Marcus stepped forward. “Settle down, gentlemen,” he took out his badge. The men stopped for a moment. “We were just leaving.”

“Not before he gives us back that watch,” one of them said.

At that moment, Marcus wished Sherlock had his mouth taped shut so they could have just left peacefully and without incident.

Instead, Sherlock frowned. “It was not yours to begin with.”

There was a moment, then a grunt, and finally movement.

The larger of the men directly aimed for Holmes’ head, who, Marcus assumed, was the “owner” of the Rolex. Joan had her baton in hand, stepping between Sherlock and a smaller gentleman, who hesitated to fight—perhaps with a woman, it was different. Another man stood back with his pool cue in hand. Marcus meant to break up the fights as quickly as possible, but as Sherlock dodged the larger man’s fists, he kept an eye on the man not doing a thing in the fight. Marcus started to approach the man, who was, for a lack of a better term, pissed off.

“Sir, I’m going to ask you to drop the weapon,” he said. The man, of course, did not comply. Marcus instead saw the man’s hands clench the cue tighter, and turning his head to a defenseless man dodging fists. He only had seconds to react.

There was the wind-up.

Marcus grabbed Sherlock’s shoulder. “Holmes, duck!”

And the pitch.

Sherlock watched the cue stick swing above him at an enormous speed, which had clipped the larger man in the jaw. What was the probability something like that could happen? He didn’t know. All he saw was the larger man fall to the ground, groans filling the air, and a piece of the cue stick also fall next to the larger man. Sherlock looked over at Marcus, who was rather relieved there were no injuries in his party, and started to bounce: Marcus’ hand was still on his shoulder, and it burned.

It surprised Marcus when Sherlock moved, letting his hand fall to his side.

(Joan clocked the smaller man in the mouth when he was distracted by the other swinging the pool cue. She even had a little assistance from the bartender, who kept him down on the ground as she checked on the other two with her. She never understood why she stayed with Holmes, especially when danger was around every corner with the man. It sure didn’t lay off on the entertainment, though.)

The bartender stood near the six people, hands on his hips. “Detective,” the bartender said. Marcu quickly gathered himself and stood before the man. “Would you mind escorting these men out of my bar? They have caused quite a disturbance.”

Three men on the street and an apology about the pool cue later, Marcus shook his head. What were the chances of meeting the same men from a petty theft case while on a murder case? He didn’t know, but they were back on the same case as before, back to the murder and crime of the city to get some information on their new suspect. It was a good way to distract the detective of something nagging in the back of his mind.

And for that, he was grateful.

(Perhaps Sherlock, too, was grateful, but he would never show it.)

\- - -

3\. One minute, they were joking around, talking about fencing and basketball and—what else was there? Marcus hadn’t a clue, it was all starting to blur together into one big mess. He was having trouble remembering how they got outside the courthouse, how Sherlock decided to open his mouth, which needed to be glued shut half the time, and how Marcus ended up on the ground in agony, blood staining his clothing as the wound continued to pour.

But it had happened, and that was that.

One minute, a previous suspect stood in front of them, talking about the troubles he had.

The next, Sherlock had said something—it must have been something aggravating, as the man held a weapon in his hand in the blink of an eye, which was not surprising, as anything Sherlock said could be aggravating.

In the final minute, Marcus yelled: “Gun!” And the immediate reaction was to protect Sherlock.

Not himself.

Not Joan.

So one felt pain, and the other—well, a different kind of pain, a deeper kind of pain, one that would linger until time decided it was okay to not feel it anymore. Sherlock was dazed, standing closeby, not really right next to them, perse. But his fingers started to tap against his thumb as he noticed Marcus on the ground, shot.

There was blood spilt.

Then, there was nothing.

(The only other time the agony spiked was near Sherlock in the hospital, and while he knew the man was doing all he could to atone for what had happened, Marcus had every right to be angry. Angry at what? Sherlock’s big mouth? Most likely. The fact Sherlock was the last to visit him in the hospital, and had not inquired about how Marcus was feeling? Maybe.

“I’d rather not see you around here.”

It fell out of his mouth so easily, but he had to leave the room before he could see Sherlock break down before him. And that—that was agony enough.)

\- - -

4\. Several awkward moments and a not-so-common apology later, Marcus and Sherlock were friends—colleagues, Sherlock would argue, but Marcus felt “friends” was an appropriate title—once more. They might not have hung out outside of the precinct as much, nor did they really talk about their outside lives half the time, but it seemed the duo had become closer than before. Marcus hadn’t a clue how to respond to that, but Sherlock had a good idea: “When a man risks his life for another, there is an unbreakable bond that comes with it.”

Marcus agreed.

Sherlock would start to become very cautious and aware of their surroundings whenever dealing with a suspect, in case of a firearm hidden somewhere. Marcus appreciated the gesture, but he didn’t have to—the job came with dangers, and Marcus was aware of it. Still, not having to deal with Sherlock’s big mouth was something Marcus never thought he’d see (that was Joan’s responsibility, it seemed, as she vented her frustrations to the detective from time to time).

But a dynamic changed one day. They had been working a case for some time, and they had received an address for a suspect they wished to question, or at least talk to. Marcus and Sherlock decided to go together, as Joan wished to stay behind and look at other details of the case. So they obliged, and a long car ride—either Sherlock would not shut up about the music choice Marcus had, or it was a very silent ride there—brought them to their location. Marcus knocked on the door and waited with Sherlock outside. Not much was said, or to be said, really—

Until Sherlock was pushing him out of the way of _something_.

But there was nothing.

All Marcus felt was Sherlock pushing against him, holding him back, and covering Marcus’ entire body with his own. They stayed like that for only a moment, but the moment seemed to drag on, seemed to keep itself from devolving. It was why Marcus seemed upset and agitated over the maneuver when he backed away from Sherlock, who was rather surprised as well—a very rare occurrence in the world of Sherlock Holmes.

What was he protecting Marcus from? “S-Sorry,” he stuttered, staring at Marcus with a whole lot of emotions running through him. “I just, I, um,” Marcus never saw the man like that before. He usually was very precise in what he said, very casual in the way he presented himself, but—but this was different. Sherlock was nervous.

Marcus continued to listen, giving the Consulting Detective time to collect his thoughts and continue his statement. “I-I thought I heard Mr. Lowenthal retrieve—”

Then: BOOM.

Neither would see the wood chips fly from the door, which now had a rather large hole in it, but a second later, Marcus’ hand was on Sherlock’s shoulder once more, an all-too-familiar feeling for both of them, gun being pulled from the holster, Marcus standing between an agitated suspect and a defenseless man. Marcus’ hand burned on his shoulder again, but once it was gone, once he stood in front of Sherlock, ready for anything that may have come their way, Sherlock stared at the smaller man.

The only relief from the fire was the wall he stood against outside the hotel room.

And even then, the fire stayed.

(Joan would have no idea what he was talking about when they went back to Brownstone. While she was still worried about his safety and well-being from the attack, Sherlock would not stop rolling his shoulder while examining details of the case. She asked if he had injured his shoulder, but he only mentioned something about a burning feeling he could not rid of.

He refused treatment.)

\- - -

5\. _“You aren’t going through with the dinner plans with Holmes?”_

_“With a guy like him? Please. A smug guy like him needs to be taken down a few pegs.”_

Marcus Bell was not sure what he was protecting Sherlock Holmes from that time. Heartbreak? Rejection? Why did he care? Well, he knew why he cared, and it was why he was standing outside of the restaurant the woman asked Sherlock on a date to, but decided to skip town instead. He had no idea what he was doing (yes he did), no idea why he thought it would be a good thing he confess or at least try to make some advance on Sherlock (yes he did, although it made him sick to his stomach when he thought about it), but his hand pushed the door open and he was inside the restaurant.

When had it began, this nagging feeling of being with Sherlock? Perhaps it was when they first met outside the room where a murder and burglary had happened. Or maybe it was when Sherlock was the one to take him to a coffee shop down the road when Marcus had finally gotten out of the hospital.

But it was all building up, and it was not able to contain itself any longer.

Soon enough, after being shown to the table, he stood over Sherlock, who was confused. Maybe not about why the woman was not there (he had figured the woman did not wish to arrive, after being at the restaurant for over ten minutes and no sign of her), but why, out of all those he had in his life, would a young detective be there. He assumed Joan would come around and perhaps have dinner with him, or at least take him home—both would not happen, as the certain young detective before him told her of his plans, and she wished him well.

Marcus coughed. “Hey Holmes,” he said. He was already shrugging off his coat when Sherlock began to “scan” him—he had no other word for it. It was his way of deducing anyone near him, and scanning was a good way to describe how his eyes scaled him up and down. Maybe he would get the hint by how well-dressed Marcus was. Not that he wasn’t always well-dressed, especially in recent cases with Sherlock consulting. But black slacks, black coat, with a dark purple shirt and light purple tie? It had to be some kind of clue to Sherlock.

He assumed wrong. “Why are you here?” he asked. Marcus sat down at the table, hands on the menu. “I already know she will not be joining me for dinner, which is rather a shame because I thought she would have been great company,” Marcus did not take his eyes off the man. Watching his hand gestures while he talked was fascinating itself. “But I naturally thought Watson would have been in the restaurant, not you.”

(Actually, Joan had told Marcus that she was going to go to the restaurant earlier in the night, but Marcus shook his head and told her he would go instead. She looked at him quizzically, and without missing a beat, she agreed. She told him to have fun and relax.

Marcus only chuckled.)

Marcus shrugged and leaned back in his chair, thumb inside the menu. “Just saw you in the window, and thought I’d save you the embarrassment of rejection. That’s all.” Marcus opened his menu.

Sherlock’s eyes darted to the windows near the front of the restaurant, then back to Marcus, whose eyes went down to his menu. Better to not get caught in the act, he thought. He knew the excuse would not work—it did, however, buy some time for the detective to come up with a good line to join Sherlock. “It is rather impossible for you—”

“I know,” and Marcus looked up to see Sherlock still interested, still wondering why in the world he was sitting across from him, rolling one shoulder as he sat—he wondered what was wrong with that shoulder. Marcus looked back at his menu, a rather safe place than staring at Sherlock. “I thought—I thought, since she was going to blow you off, and I didn’t want to see you, I don’t know, heartbroken, it would be a good idea to have dinner together.”

Nothing, except the quiet conversations around them.

It was a little too much for Marcus after a few moments. He looked up to see Sherlock leaning back in his seat. Most likely it meant that he understood the situation.

But, of course, to be clear: “You wish to be my date tonight?”

Marcus sighed, relaxing in his seat (but still very anxious in case Sherlock rejected the notion entirely). “Only if you’ll have me.”

Sherlock sat still for a moment, staring at him, who had no idea what would happen next. But Sherlock bounced in his seat a few times, then looked at his own menu. Marcus tapped lightly on the table when he suddenly heard: “I would not try the seafood selection at this restaurant. If they cannot keep up maintaining their aquarium up front, chances are they cannot do the same with that delicacy.”

Suddenly, Sherlock’s eyes lifted from the menu to join his, and Marcus blinked once, twice, then registered what had happened. He looked back down at his menu and smiled. “Duly noted.”

He did not notice Sherlock staring at him, nor did he see him relax in his presence, but Marcus was content.

(“So,” Joan asked as Sherlock walked through the door of Brownstone. “How was your date?”

She swore she saw a small smile on his face, but he stood in the archway of their living room and said: “It was rather pleasant.”

She smiled. “That’s good. Are you going to see them again?”

Sherlock stared at his companion. “You knew.”

“I did.”

“So you know the next answer.”

“I do.”

And that was it.)

\- - -

6\. They had just enjoyed coffee.

And Marcus had just relished in the moment of finally (after months of trying!) holding hands with Sherlock.

A man, though, had ruined their plans. There was a gun pointed at Sherlock once the man came closer to them.

A demand soon after.

They were not quick enough.

And Marcus heard the gun click, the safety off, and went to step in front of Sherlock.

But it was all a blur, and when the shot rang in his ears, he felt agony.

There was blood.

So much of it.

A scattered 911 call and a slow descent down to the concrete later, there they were on the sidewalk.

The shooter had disappeared. It was just the two of them.

Sirens blared in the distance.

Sherlock was clutching the wound in his neck, unable to talk.

“You’re gonna be okay, you’re gonna—” Marcus started, looking around for any sign of help, any lights which could have been close to them. The only shadows he could see were the people in their homes looking out. His hands were covered in blood, and were continuing to be covered in it. “Gonna be okay,” he continued his thought, continued to bring some kind of hope back. Marcus looked down at Sherlock, whose head rested in his lap.

This wasn’t part of the plan.

Their eyes met, and Marcus hadn’t noticed the pair of lights speeding down the street toward them.

Blood continued to pour onto the concrete, onto his legs, onto everything around them.

Sherlock opened his mouth, but only a red streak slid down his cheek.

“No,” Marcus began to panic, “No, no, Sherlock, don’t say anything, don’t—”

Sherlock started to heavily breathe.

“Sherlock, stay with me.”

A cough, more blood spluttering out.

More heaving.

More clutching.

Hands together.

“Sherlock!”

(Both he and Joan were in the hospital’s waiting room. They didn’t know how many hours had gone by. Marcus was trying to remember what Sherlock had last said to him. It was something about the coffee shop, something about their date—“I rather enjoy our moments together.” Was that it?

Marcus held his head in the palms of his hands. He’d have time to think while the clock above ticked away.)

\- - -

Marcus placed the flowers down. He almost swore he could hear Sherlock complain about the flowers—which were thoughtfully picked out—and how they would not survive so long in the kind of weather they were having. Wrong genus for this time of year, allegedly.

But Marcus knew better.

(It was only the cold wind passing over the dead.)


End file.
